Classic Poem

You ask me “Where the tortur'd heart
Has learnt from all its griefs to part;”
The little prompter seems to say,
“Do tell her, it 's at Swansea Bay. ”

The roaring waves that strike the beach
Through midnight gales their audience reach,
The silver moon adorns their spray,
And sheds her pearls on Swansea Bay .

When morn returns, the solar beam
More brilliant makes the radiant stream,
And gilds the lovely forms that play
In frolic dance at Swansea Bay .

The vary'd sail, from ship to boat,
The distant hamlet's whiten'd coat,
The islands that with Love's delay
Seem to look back on Swansea Bay .

The giant-hill, whose ample steep
And striding pillars guard the deep,
The farm that smiles with corn and hay,
Give peace and hope at Swansea Bay .

The polish'd and accomplish'd fair,
The rustic with her flowing hair,
The silken hose, with lustre gay,
Or naked feet, at Swansea Bay .

The sea-born Queen, in forms like these,
Attir'd or undress'd can please,—
For Beauty, with impartial sway,
Unites all ranks at Swansea Bay.